An Extension of the Weapon
by Mark of the Asphodel
Summary: The War of Darkness has changed the political landscape of Archanea, but the nature of war itself is changing as well. Beck the ballistician finds his contributions not entirely welcome in the League. One-shot, FE11.


******An Extension of the Weapon**

**This takes place during Chapter 18 of Shadow Dragon-- after the reconquest of Altea, before the first battle with the Sable Order. In other words, Est hasn't joined the army yet.**

**I do not own Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon or any characters therein. No money has been made from this endeavor.**

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It wasn't a proper battle unless you could stare your enemy in his eye and see the look on his face as he met his death. It wasn't a fair battle unless you were close enough to your enemy to have his dying words in your ears, until you and he were locked in a gasping, blood-soaked embrace as intimate as any pair of lovers. A quick, clean kill from afar was bad form, they said. It made a sport out of the noble business of war. To pick off pegasus knights like they were pigeons and clerics like they were rabbits was _ig_noble, base, humiliating. So they said; they used a lot of big words. Cavaliers, they called themselves-- a fancy word for what, in Beck's world, was simply a social knight. That wasn't all they called themselves; on nights like this, the _cavaliers_ answered to names like Great Bull and Black Panther while they choked down more ale than they could handle. Kids. Oh, they could fight, but once the weapons were down for the night, it was plain to see that for all these lads might die on the morrow, they hadn't lived enough to pick up a bit of sense. When you had a curate up on the ramparts slinging Fortify spells across the entire enemy force, did it make more sense to send your pretty pony rider up in the range of enemy arrows, or did you just lob a shot, courtesy of old Beck, right into the curate's blessed head?

And they had a fine group of pretty riders-- girls worth keeping alive, in Beck's humble opinion. The princess of Macedon, with hair like fire and nerves like steel, and the pair of sisters under her command. Young girls, they were-- astonishingly young for such fierce fighters. Youngest of all was the high commander's foster-sister, princess of a nowhere island so remote that it was the one safe place for Alteans to hide after the fall of their king. She was the finest pony rider out of Talys, they said, which didn't amount to much given the mighty army of Talys needed help from an old man and a pack of kids just to fend off some pirates. The finest pony rider out of Talys wouldn't last against an Arrowspate, that was sure, and that was where Beck came into things.

"Got them through a tight spot against Grigas and his crew, for sure." So Beck muttered into his own ale, while the high and mighty cavaliers drank themselves silly and the pretty pegasus knights sipped their brambleberry wine off in the corner. Not that the girls ever showed much gratitude towards shooters as a class. Their first taste of ballista was usually Arrowspate-flavored, and that left them with a lasting dislike towards shooters in general, if not Beck in particular. Different reasons than the social knights, perhaps, but the same outcome.

From the old paladin to the youngest archer, Beck's fellows-at-arms considered him a necessary evil. The enemy was tricky and foul enough to make use of shooters, and Beck's own Thunderbolt made short work of said enemy shooters, so Beck's presence on the field was tolerated. Once the field was clear of ballistae, Beck was expected to get to the rear lines and wait it out while all the proper soldiers took down the enemy cavs and armor knights and mages. Never mind that Beck did fair work when they marched into Altea, hammering Hollstadt and his guard to soften them up while the League's forces went in two directions. By the time the halves of the army circled 'round to meet, they could parade right in and claim the castle. Of course, Beck could've let Hollstadt and his men alone, but a right lot of good it would do to get all the way through Altea and end with the high commander dead at his own gate.

Grandstanding, the golden-haired paladin called it, though Beck hadn't seen _him_ doing much in the battle once he poked his blond head out of the village where he'd been hiding.

"I don't want to see you behaving that way when we face the Sable Order," Alan or Arran or whoever he was said, as though _he_ were the long-lost prince of Altea, himself. Meaning, of course, that the Sable Order was _real_ knights, men too good to die on a ballista bolt.

"I've news for you, pally. The Sable Order has more shooters in their ranks than we do. You'll be glad if Beck here doesn't run out of Thunderbolts before the battle is over, see?"

Goldilocks turned red in the face, and threatened to report Beck to the high commander for showing disrespect to his betters. Beck just smiled at the jumped-up social knight; the high commander didn't give a damn what came out of Beck's mouth as long as his aim was true.

Strangely, it was the girl-mage who took an interest in the work of a ballistician. Beck supposed that, to Linde, the shooter's art was a wonder, as marvelous to her as magic was to Beck. Linde came to visit in the breathing spaces between battles, and she peppered him with questions while Beck cleaned and aligned his growing collection of wheeled fortresses. Ballistae were a pile of trouble to carry around the continent, but they were too dear for Beck to abandon on the field. If the ballista could still roll, it went in the supply train. If not, it went in the parts bin.

"It's beautiful, Mister Beck," she said, running her fingers along the wheel-spokes of his own favorite, the ballista he'd come in with. Beck called it his chariot; specialized for hurling thunderbolts, the ballista was death on wheels for any other shooter in range. "Whoever thought to come up with these?"

"A right clever man, Linde." A man of Grust, of course, though Archanea naturally said it was one of their own fine warriors who put firepower into the fight. "They say he was tired of pegasus riders comin' over the border from Macedon, so's he built a weapon that would launch arrows farther than the strongest sniper with a longbow could dream of. And it worked, see? And then he got creative, like, gettin' the local bishop to bless his arrows with fire magic and thunder magic to cause all sorts o' damage. Brilliant."

"Brilliant," agreed Linde. "I wonder if I could put the power of Aura into a ballista."

The idea tempted Beck. Aura magic in a ballista... why, it would be the only one of its kind on the continent. It'd be one more thing to haul around, though, and if the enemy ever somehow acquired it....

"No, Linde. That tome o' your father's is only good for so many uses, if I recall. Best to keep it for yourself. Old Beck has enough o' this rubbish to carry around."

"I guess," said Linde, but Beck could see in her eyes that the wheels of speculation were still turning in that pretty chestnut head of hers. She promised to bless his weapons with Thunder and Elfire if he ever ran low on ammunition, though, and Beck accepted the offer. In the length and breadth of the empire, only one armory kept ballista ammunition in stock. Otherwise, it was all up to the gifts of the local bishop, and power like young Linde's was a rare thing.

Linde settled down on the earth, heedless of the dirt on her rose-colored dress. Time spent masquerading as a lad had rubbed off on Linde; she didn't pay mind to things a girl of her age ought to. Beck was used to it by now, and he continued working on his ballistae while he waited for the next question.

"Mister Beck, how did you decide to take up the ballista?"

"I'm just a born shooter, girlie," he said. And Linde, who would spend all her life being her father's daughter unless she lived to make a name for herself, took Beck at his word. He was born to it, just as Linde was born to draw ice and light and fire from the pages of books. No need to go beyond that.

Back in the present day, at this tavern on the road to Chiasmir, the League all sorted themselves out by kind and country. Altean knights at this table, Aurelians at that table, mages at another, swordfighters at one end, pony and dragon riders over in their corner, and around Beck were the ones that didn't fit anywhere. Some, like himself, were from the kingdom whose own Sable Order they were about to face, which could've made for some interestingly uncomfortable conversation, if anyone'd wanted to bring it up.

There was Jake, for instance. The _other_ ballistician out of Grust. Jake didn't feel the same chill from the knights and the swordfighters, but then Jake didn't consider himself a shooter. His heart wasn't in war; the pony riders said Jake's heart belonged to a redheaded lass from Knorda village, which might've even been true. As it was, Jake made himself useful tending the convoy, took as much pride in it as though he were a shopkeeper and the goods and supplies his own wares. A knight who borrowed an axe or javelin from the convoy would find the weapon sharp enough to split a hair, polished enough to see his own mug in. A knight who brought back weapons in sorry condition got a talking-to, as though they'd done Jake personal insult by the mistreatment. Only the ballistae were excepted; Jake left those to Beck's care, even to Jake's own Arrowspate.

Off duty, Jake hung about at the back of the supply train, listening to Darros tell pirate stories. Darros was another who didn't put his heart into the battle. Beck suspected that Darros joined the League mostly from boredom; the ex-pirate viewed this campaign as another lark, something to spin into a tale for listeners in some other time and country. Being in the League was the adventure of their generation, and for some of their lot, that was reward in itself. It wasn't like they'd all taken arms just to get Princess Nyna her throne back, or to find Prince Marth's mum and elder sister. Like any man of Grust, Beck didn't care much which tyrant sat on the throne at Millennium Palace. Whoever it was ruling from Pales, it was bad news for Grust. Princess Nyna was a lovely lass, but many a girl of Grust was lovely, too-- once. Before the war, before the rise of Dolhr, before a lot of things Beck didn't want to think about. No, Beck wasn't _for_ House Archanea, and didn't doubt that many of them walking under Nyna's banner wore their own colors next to their skin.

Funny thing, this League. Beck once heard one of the fool cavaliers calling their crew the Army of Justice. Beck snorted at the memory. Army of Justice? This collection of exiles, hired killers, woodcutters, a pair of confessed thieves, and assorted cowards and turncoats? You'd find a more just lot of people in the stocks in any village of Grust. Duke Hardin impressed him; Beck knew enough of the Coyote to respect the man, on and off the battlefield, and the Aurelian warriors conducted themselves like right soldiers, men on a level with any in the Sable Order. General Camus excepted, of course. The Aurelians weren't much for conversation, except perhaps the little pretty boy. Beck avoided Roshea, though-- he'd mistaken the rosy-cheeked knight for a lass at first sight, and had very nearly earned himself the reputation as the dirty old man of their army before coming to his senses. Roshea still turned an even deeper shade of pink whenever he and Beck crossed paths, so Beck did the boy the kindness of avoiding him whenever possible.

Other than Duke Hardin's men, though... well, Beck only need look around him to take the measure of this fine army. Darros was spinning tales of the sea again, and Jake was wrapped up in the half-lies and exaggerations as ever. At the other end of the table sat another odd couple, the old priest and the young armor knight. Roger, the boy's name was. Roger of Grust, it was, and so would be again, if there was anything left of Grust to come back to once they were done playing soldiers with the League. Roger was telling the story everyone in the League told one another-- not of who they were, or where they came from, or what they wanted from the peace after the war. No... Roger, flushed from his ale, babbled out the story of his conversion to the cause of light, a tale wrapped around the dazzle of a pretty girl's smile. That the girl was out of his class, promised him nothing and gave him nothing but a change of uniform-- well, that didn't dull young Roger's ardor. He'd clanked right on over to Prince Marth, filled with visions of the pretty girl, and changed his colors there on the battlefield.

Beck wondered how that conversation had gone: "My lord, I've come to join your cause out of lust for your little princess." Where Beck came from, that was a right quick path to having your neck cleaved from your shoulders. What sort of prince was this that didn't dole out a punishment when a common armor knight showed that much fondness for a noble lady, for his own foster-sister? And then, what sort of prince was this that allowed his enemies a place in his front ranks on the thinnest of excuses?

The Altean knights, with their fine speeches and their fine codes of honor, weren't in the same mold as their leader. Beck reckoned that Prince Marth picked up some strange ideas in that strange place called Talys, just as he'd picked up a strong Talys accent. What _did_ the people of Altea think of it when their savior addressed them from the castle with the speech of a foreigner? They didn't mind now-- no, they wept for joy-- but the first time the crops wilted in the summer heat, or the winter plague struck the cattle and horses, well, it could be a different tale then. Not that Beck wished the prince ill; no, the high commander did right by old Beck. "My ballistician," the prince called him, right to the face of arrogant Arran the paladin. Nothing Arran could do about it then; the lad defending an impudent Grustian commoner in his Talys accent was Arran's own sovereign, and Arran had to choke on his own knightly code and smile about it. In Prince Marth's army, action counted for a sight more than speeches and posturing.

Not that the high commander didn't do a bit of speechmaking. He made quite a nice one when the army set off for near-certain death at the Straits of Chiasmir. Something about their war being an extension of their weapons, which made sense enough to Beck given that the prince was a bit obsessed with finding this Falchion sword, and keen on collecting all the holy weapons of Archanea if he could. It also made sense to Beck on a gut level-- he _was_ Thunderbolt, at least in the thick of battle. On the boards where the high commander sketched out his plans for a battle, there was always a space where a ballista needed to go, and Beck was there to fill it. There was a space for the Hauteclere, and a Killing Edge, and the Aura tome and the Parthia, and the League had someone in the ranks to fill each of those, too. And that maybe unraveled some of the mystery in the way Prince Marth picked out his army. Maybe the prince was looking at arrogant Arran's fine silver lance when he knocked on the paladin's door. And if Arran wasn't the man to make use of that lance, Marth would find the knight who would, be they paladin or pony rider.

Best not to think about it too hard, though. The high commander was really just a lad, scarcely older than Roshea of Aurelis. Perhaps he simply liked to have a lot of toys. After that miserable battle in the Magic Oasis, Beck heard the prince grilling his prissy old tactician about the Swarm tome-- where he could get one, and how his mages could learn to use it. The small fact that Swarm was _dark magic_, the kind of thing a mum would scare her little ones to good behavior with, didn't much deter the prince from wanting to get his hands on the thing. Rumor had it that one of the young hired swords was taking up the dark arts in his spare time-- the official story was that he was brushing up on his magic skills to get a better handle on the Levin Sword. Prince Marth turned a deaf ear to the seedier rumors. An Army of Goodness and Light packed with dark mages toting Swarm tomes... well, that was a pretty picture.

A few other things about the League didn't quite add up to the myth this Prince of the Stars was making for himself. They defended conquered villages from thieves, then made off with the village treasures as "gifts." They made sure to liberate the jewels and such from palaces at the same time they liberated the prisoners. The prince himself was now picking chests as skillfully as any thief, and claiming it as his right thanks to some holy gewgaw given him by the Princess Nyna. But they didn't take the young girls, or the young boys either. They didn't molest the clerics or set fire to the temples or make the village elders parade naked through the streets. Jake had told him the story of how Prince Marth cleared out the Knorda slave market, and recruited fair Linde to the cause in the bargain-- a good day's work, that. Those were actions to judge a man on, Swarm or no bloody Swarm tome.

Where Beck came from, loyalty to the crown and country was the measure of a man. King Ludwik wasn't much as kings went, but every common man of Grust knew that one drop of their king's blood was worth an ocean of their own. And it was theirs that filled the straits and the oceans, always. And yet, here were at least three men of Grust marching shoulder to shoulder with the knights of Altea and Aurelis-- marching to the tune of this strange prince, who treated the men who turned their loyalties for a sack of bullion or the smile of a pretty girl as well as he did the men who got down on their knees to swear undying devotion. A prince who let the rank and file tease him with the same forbearance he showed to the Archanean nobles when they insulted him. A prince who didn't ask that anyone do penance for whatever it was they'd done before joining the League-- he only asked that they stop doing whatever the bad thing was, and starting doing what Prince Marth wanted them to do. Stop shooting Alteans, and start shooting Grustians. Protect the pretty pony riders instead of aiming for them. Steal for the League instead of from them. And they went and did it, turned over all the gold and the mighty weapons and even their lives to this lad out of Talys who claimed to be the missing prince of Altea. When Marth turned out to actually _be_ a real prince, Beck was half surprised.

Beck reckoned no army like this had ever marched in all the years of Archanea's glory. He also reckoned they'd fall to pieces in a heartbeat if the high commander went down. Without Prince Marth, this war was over, Nyna or no Nyna. And if they actually managed to accomplish all the impossible things they'd set out to do, destroying the Dark Pontifex and slaying a Dragon King and all the rest of it... well, the League would fall to pieces in about _two_ heartbeats, and Beck could go back to comfortably despising the Archaneans.

Roger'd finally finished his story about Princess Caeda's smile. Now someone else had joined their circle of outcasts-- Matthis, the greatest fool among the fool cavaliers, was giving his own account now of Prince Marth's nobility and mercy. Not being killed on sight was enough to win the eternal gratitude of young Matthis. Then again, he came from the blasted misery of Macedon, so mayhap Matthis could be excused for being afraid of anything in a crown.

"Aye," Darros agreed once Matthis finally closed his mouth. "He's a fine lad. He's worth turning me back on the sea... 't least for a spell."

"There's none other like our prince," said the old Altean curate. "I took his measure the first time I laid eyes on him. The gods have touched that boy."

"Aye. He'll be King of the World or end up run through with his own sword," Beck said. His drinking mates only appeared to hear the first part of the sentence; they nodded and raised their cups to the future king of the world. Old Wrys understood it, though-- new wrinkles formed around his eyes as the curate took in all of what Beck said.

"The gods will protect him," Wrys said in the end. "They must, for he is theirs."

"And we're his right now, see? Gods protect us all." Tonight, he was Beck of Grust, having a drink or three with what passed for friends. On the morrow, he'd be Thunderbolt, defender of pony riders, valued ballistician, serving the high commander since sometime in 604. And, in truth, he wasn't doing it for the gold, or for any girl's smile, or for Princess bloody Nyna. Beck rather liked being Prince Marth's favorite shooter. After the war-- if there was any "after" to have-- the King of the World was bound to have some rebels and troublemakers on his hands. Beck just might ask to keep his job for a while.

***The End***

Author's Notes: I based Beck's relative age on his appearance in Shadow Dragon; he looks quite a bit younger in his depiction in the Fire Emblem Card Game and in the artbook that came out after FE3. But Beck wasn't even in FE3, so Shadow Dragon takes priority. And "old," in comparison to 15-17 year olds, could be late twenties or early thirties. Beck _feels_ "old" compared with Caeda and Roshea, at any rate. Other ages based on the info in Serenes Forest taken from an FE3 novelization. As for the issue of accents, in Shadow Dragon, Marth and the upper-class heroes are translated in plain ol' American English, and the baddies and peasants get a variety of vaguely British accents. To Beck's ears, the nobles all sound ridiculous. Also, you'll notice Beck doesn't "think" the way he speaks. Most people, in my experience, don't.


End file.
